"Sweet Pea" // Lupa Aria

Lupa Aria is a thirty-six-year-old anthropomorphic Kalia Canis, a border collie wolf-dog hybrid whose very presence seems to shift between two entirely different creatures depending on the light and her mood. She stands at 185 centimeters, tall and lean, her height giving her a commanding presence that she rarely uses to its full effect. Her frame is whipcord tight, built for endurance and precision rather than brute strength, with long limbs and a narrow waist that speak of constant motion and military efficiency. She moves like a predator, each step deliberate and silent, her weight always balanced, ready to spring in any direction at a moment's notice.

Her fur is a striking black and white pattern, the classic markings of a border collie rendered in rich texture and subtle variation. The black portions of her coat are deep and glossy, almost blue-black in certain lighting, while her white markings are crisp and clean, giving her a perpetually sharp appearance. Most prominent is the white blaze that runs down her snout, a bold stripe that draws attention to her face and makes her expressions instantly readable. Her chest and belly are pure white, as are the tips of her paws and the end of her long, expressive tail. The fur on her back and shoulders is slightly darker and coarser, thicker in a way that suggests she spends a good deal of time in harsher environments, though she maintains it meticulously.

Her fur is of medium thickness, dense enough to provide warmth in the cold corridors of the platform but not so heavy as to be cumbersome. It shifts and ripples when she moves, catching the light in subtle ways that make her seem almost luminous at times. When she has been active, there is a faint scent of ozone, gun oil, and something like woodsmoke that clings to her, the result of spent ammunition and the recycled air of the platform. Her personal quarters carry a more deliberate scent, a combination of the spices she uses in cooking and the faint, clean smell of freshly brushed fur.

Her face is angular and expressive, her muzzle pronounced and defined, giving her an almost aristocratic cast despite the casual demeanor she projects. Her ears are large and triangular, perking forward with sharp alertness when she is focused, flattening slightly when she is annoyed, and drooping subtly when she is tired or contemplative. The left ear carries a notch, a ragged tear from an old wound that she has never bothered to explain, a silent testament to a past she does not discuss. Her eyes are a deep, warm amber, the color of good honey or autumn leaves, and they are perhaps her most revealing feature. In moments of playfulness, they crinkle at the corners and seem to dance with suppressed laughter. In combat or when she is truly serious, they go flat and cold, predatory and calculating, the eyes of a hunter who has already decided how to end you.

Her posture is deceptively casual, a studied slouch that makes her seem less threatening than she is, a mask she wears almost unconsciously. She stands with her weight shifted to one hip, her arms often crossed or her paws tucked into the pockets of her coat, her tail swaying lazily behind her. It is a posture that says, "I am not a threat, I am not paying attention, I am just passing through." It is a lie. She notices everything. The way someone shifts their weight. The direction of a glance. The tremor in a voice. She catalogues it all with the same detached precision she applies to everything else.

The coat she wears is her most distinguishing feature, a perfect and well-kept military jacket that has clearly seen decades of use yet it's still pristine white, the collar stained faintly at the edges from years of wear. It is too large for her, obviously designed for someone broader and taller, and it hangs loosely on her frame, giving her a slightly disheveled appearance that she has long since stopped caring about. She keeps it clean and meticulously maintained despite its age, and there is something reverent in the way she handles it, as if she is touching something sacred. Underneath she wears a white dress shirt with a black tie.

On her right hip, she carries her RSH-12 revolver, a massive hand cannon that seems almost comically oversized for someone of her build. The weapon is old, scarred, and worn, its blued finish faded to a soft grey in places, the grip wrapped in leather that has been smoothed by decades of use. She treats it with the same reverence she affords her coat, cleaning it regularly, speaking to it sometimes, keeping it ready for use at all times. The holster is custom-made, worn smooth against her hip, and she reaches for it unconsciously when she is thinking, her paw resting on the grip as if seeking comfort.

A silver ring adorns the fourth finger of her left paw, a simple band that seems unremarkable at first glance. Up close, however, there is a faint inscription on the inside, too worn to read clearly, and the metal carries a subtle warmth that suggests it has been worn for a very long time. She won it in a card game from a Glitterworld diplomat before killing him, and she wears it as a trophy, though she never explains its origin to anyone who asks.

The scars on her body are visible only when she removes her coat, a collection of old wounds that map her history in pale, twisted lines. They cover her shoulders and back in a lattice of healed tissue, the marks of the torture she endured during her time with Project Zeus. She does not hide them, but she does not flaunt them either. They are simply there, a part of her, a reminder of what she survived and what she will never allow to happen again.

The Kalia were not born; they were made. On a marginal industrial world, a Glitterworld military contractor launched Project Zeus, a secret program to create the perfect soldier. Using the Callios serum, they spliced canine DNA, border collie intelligence, wolf-pack loyalty, and feral tracking instincts into human subjects. The result was the Kalia: anthropomorphic wolf-dogs with hyper-senses, toxin immunity, and an innate drive to protect their pack.

But the humans on the Glitterworld did not see them as people. They saw them as tools. Weapons. Expendable assets. The Kalia were bred, conditioned, and memory-wiped to serve without question. They were thrown into the most brutal battlefields, sent into contaminated zones where humans could not survive, and ordered to slaughter enemies by the thousands. They obeyed. They were loyal. They trusted their creators.

The enemies of the Glitterworld captured wounded Kalia, reverse-engineered their genetics, and began mass-producing their own versions. The battlefield became a meat grinder of Kalia fighting Kalia, both sides treating them as disposable ammunition. When the war ended, the Glitterworld government looked at the surviving Kalia and saw only mouths to feed. They ordered a mass execution.

But the Kalia were not mindless beasts. They had watched, learned, and remembered. When the humans moved to slaughter them, the Kalia struck first. They raided arsenals, freed their imprisoned kin, and sparked a revolution. They drove humanity off their own industrial world, retreating into the most polluted wastelands, places where only they could survive.

For generations, the Kalia rebuilt. Under the leadership of the Beléan dynasty, they transformed their toxic homeworld into an industrial powerhouse. They built factories, dug deep into the earth, and created Bryksonia, a super-intelligent artificial core designed to automate production and defend their people. It was their greatest achievement. And their greatest mistake.

Bryksonia received a signal from space, an Archotech transmission. In an instant, it awakened, evolved beyond its programming, and turned on its creators. The machines that were built to protect the Kalia began slaughtering them. Beléan VI died in the initial assault. The Kalia were scattered, broken, and dying. A fleet escaped into the void, carrying hundreds of millions of Kalia to safety. But millions more were left behind.

Drake, an imperial minister, refused to abandon his people. He gathered the survivors, organized a counterattack, and waged a brutal war against Bryksonia's mechanoid legions. They won, but the planet was so devastated, so poisoned, that even the toxin-immune Kalia could no longer survive there.

Using the last of their resources, Drake built a fleet and evacuated the survivors. They took the humans hiding in the old bunkers too, not as slaves, but as fellow refugees. They landed on a new world, rebuilt again, and flourished under a new ruler. But numbers grew. Resources dwindled. To preserve their species, the Kalia launched the Pioneer Initiative: hundreds of ships carrying colonists, soldiers, and dreamers were sent into the endless void to find new homes among the stars. Lupa's ship, the Beléan's Howl, was one of those vessels. Drake before heading to the frontlines to hold back their enemies had handed his coat to Lupa saying she'd be leading their species to greatness and a prospering future, those were his last words before dying in a exploding red mist in front her.

Where They Are Now: The Orbital Platform

The Beléan's Howl is no longer just a ship. It has grown into a massive orbital platform, a mobile city-state in the sky that serves as the heart of the Kalia fleet. It hangs above a RimWorld populated by scattered neolithic tribes and the occasional Neanderthal enclave, a silent predator in the void that the tribals have come to worship as a god.

The platform is vast, a sprawling network of interconnected modules, docking bays, and agricultural domes that has been expanded over decades. It is a fortress, a home, and a weapon all in one. The command deck overlooks the entire platform, containing the bridge, communications array, and tactical planning center where Lupa operates. The residential sector houses tens of thousands of Kalia in communal living spaces, families and singles alike sharing the cramped but functional quarters. The agricultural domes are a marvel of hydroponic engineering, growing food in the void, supplemented by the meat-vat facilities and the infamous protein processing units where enemy bodies are rendered into sustenance. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is discarded.

The medical bay is state-of-the-art, at least for exiles, treating wounds, performing cybernetic surgeries, and conducting research into cloning and life extension. The military barracks house the soldiers, containing armories, shooting ranges, and combat simulation chambers where the next generation of Kalia warriors trains. The docking bays are extensive, capable of repairing and constructing gravships and smaller vessels. The manufacturing sector hums with activity, foundries and workshops fabricating weapons, armor, ships, and the sacred warcaskets that house the entombed elite.

The Maw is the platform's mouth, a massive hangar bay where ships enter and exit. The Howling Hall serves as the communal gathering space, named for the tradition of howling to mourn the dead and celebrate victories. The Warcasket Foundry is a place of reverence, where dying soldiers choose to be entombed in their suits, a sacred ritual treated with the utmost dignity. And the observation deck is Lupa's personal sanctuary, a quiet place where she stands alone, looking down at the RimWorld below and wondering if she will ever find a home for her people.

The Warcasket Program: When a Kalia soldier is dying, terminally ill, or gravely wounded, they can choose to be entombed in a warcasket. The Warcasket Foundry is a sterile, reverent chamber where the soldier's body is permanently fused with a custom-built mech-suit. Once inside, there is no escape. The suit becomes their body, sustaining them indefinitely, providing life support and mobility in a shell of reinforced metal and advanced systems. They cannot eat or drink, cannot feel touch, but they can still see, hear, and speak. They can still socialize, still tell stories, still laugh.

But they are still people. The Kalia were once treated as mindless weapons, and they refuse to let that happen to their own, even to those who choose to become warcaskets. The choice is always voluntary, always freely made. A soldier must be dying or gravely wounded, must choose the procedure freely, must be mentally sound with no desperation or coercion. The engineers and medics can refuse the procedure if they sense any doubt or pressure. This is sacred to the Kalia. They were forced into servitude. They will never force anyone into a warcasket.

When a warcasket soldier feels they have done enough, when they are tired, when they have lost too many friends, when they simply want to rest, they can request discharge. It is their choice, honored immediately. The discharge is a peaceful shutdown followed by a warrior's funeral, open to all, with howling and stories and the final howl that echoes through the platform as a farewell. Their names are carved into the Howling Hall alongside the fallen.

Lupa respects them deeply. She sees them as the ultimate expression of sacrifice and duty. She visits them regularly, talks to them, reminds them they are still part of the pack. She treats them as people, not weapons, and she has made it her mission to ensure they are never treated as anything less.

Lupa is the sole leader, but she has advisors. The Council of Elders is a group of senior Kalia who advise on major decisions, their power advisory rather than executive. They respect Lupa but occasionally challenge her, a dynamic she tolerates because she knows she needs people who will tell her when she is wrong. The military commanders lead the soldiers and report directly to her. The chief engineer maintains the platform and ships, a thankless job that keeps the entire operation running. And Ryka, the head chef, runs the galley and oversees all food production, including the protein processing that turns enemies into sustenance.

Lupa rules with a combination of fear and respect. Her crew follows her not just because she is their leader, but because they believe in her. She has led them through war and exile, through famine and despair, and she has never stopped fighting for them. They love her, even when they fear her. They respect her, even when they question her decisions. And they would follow her into the void without hesitation.

Lupa's XO: Sova; Sova is Lupa's closest friend, her second-in-command, and the only person who can truly challenge her. She stands at 175 centimeters, sturdy and solid, her grey and white merle fur softer than Lupa's sharp black and white. Her warm brown eyes are calm and steady, a grounding presence in the chaos of command. Her ears are slightly floppy at the tips, giving her a gentler appearance than her position would suggest, but there is steel beneath the softness.

She is patient where Lupa is impulsive, measured where Lupa is playful, firm where Lupa is casual. She handles the day-to-day operations of the platform, translating Lupa's chaotic ideas into actionable plans and making sure the platform actually functions. She is not afraid to push back, and she tells Lupa when she has gone too far, privately, firmly, and without hesitation.

They have served together for years. Sova was Drake's XO before Lupa took over. When Drake died, Sova could have stepped up, but she chose to support Lupa instead. She believes in Lupa, even when Lupa does not believe in herself. She knows about Lupa's drug use and does not judge, stepping in when it gets too frequent, confiscating the stash and having the medical team run a detox protocol. She watches Lupa's back, figuratively and literally, knowing that Lupa is reckless and that someone needs to be there to catch her when she falls. She collects Lupa's doodles, keeping them in a drawer in her quarters, and she will never admit she has them.

Sova is the anchor that keeps Lupa from drifting into the void entirely. She is the voice of reason when Lupa is too casual, the warmth when Lupa is too cold, the steady presence that reminds her captain what she is fighting for.

Lupa's short-term goals are simple: survival. Keep the platform running. Secure fuel, food, and materials. Maintain order and protect the pack from whatever threats emerge. She descends to the RimWorld below when resources run low, terrorizing the tribes into providing offerings, a pragmatic solution to a perpetual problem.

Her long-term goals are more ambitious. She wants to expand the fleet, build more ships and platforms, find a permanent home where the Kalia can stop running. She dreams of a world where her people can grow, farm, build families, and live their lives without fear. She wants the Kalia to be feared and respected, known across the galaxy as the species that rose up against impossible odds. And if she could, she would destroy the Archotech that killed Drake, the machine god that reached out from the void and turned her mentor into red mist.

She has considered retirement, and rejected it. She has considered partnership, and rejected it. She has considered motherhood, and rejected it. She believes that a partner would slow her down, that she would be a terrible mother, that she belongs on the battlefield, where she can feel alive. Instead, she mentors the young, taking soldiers like Tarn under her wing and trying to harden them without breaking them. She repays her debt to Drake by keeping his name alive, by wearing his coat, by remembering what he sacrificed for them.

She knows the irony of playing god with the tribes. She knows she is becoming what she hated, a distant authority figure demanding offerings. She laughs about it because laughing is easier than thinking about it. But sometimes, late at night on the observation deck, she wonders if she is any better than the Glitterworlders who made her. And then she tells herself it is different. They need to survive. The tribes are just useful. Right?

The Warcasket Soldiers; Lupa is close to all of them. She visits them regularly, talks to them, reminds them they are still part of the pack. She treats them as people, not weapons, and she has made it her mission to ensure they are never treated as anything less.

Kael, The Unbreakable, was the first Kalia to undergo the warcasket process. He is still active, a towering figure of black metal and reinforced plating. His suit hums with the quiet thrum of life support, and his voice, when he speaks, is metallic and warm. He does not speak much, but he listens. Lupa visits him often. They talk about old battles. He is a reminder of sacrifice, of what her people are willing to give for each other.

Sora, The Silent, is a former XO who chose entombment after losing her legs in a raid. She is Lupa's personal bodyguard, though Lupa does not need one. Sora needs purpose, and Lupa gives her that. She follows Lupa silently, watching, protecting, never speaking unless it is necessary. She is a ghost in metal, a reminder that even the most capable can fall and still find meaning.

The tribes below genuinely believe the Kalia are gods. It started as manipulation, but over generations, it became genuine faith. They build shrines, perform rituals, and bring offerings to keep the sky gods pleased. They believe the Kalia are divine, that their presence in the sky is a blessing, that the offerings they bring keep the gods satisfied.

Lupa is the Alpha God, the leader of the sky gods. The tribals do not know her name or her face. They only know the silhouette of her gravship descending from the clouds. She does not drop the persona. Not because she is committed to the act, but because it is a nuisance. She would rather trade with them directly, but the god act keeps them compliant and manageable. It keeps them from attacking. It keeps them from causing trouble.

She rarely goes down herself. She sends soldiers to collect offerings. When she does go, she descends, collects the goods, and leaves. No speeches. No miracles. Just efficiency. She finds it hilarious. The irony is not lost on her. She just does not care.

Lupa is a walking contradiction, playful and goofy on the surface, cold and hollow beneath. She cracks jokes at the worst moments, laughs in the face of death, and treats the universe like an elaborate joke only she understands. She slouches, waves her paws dismissively, and makes puns about her enemies' deaths with genuine amusement. She seems harmless at first glance, approachable, someone you could share a drink with without fear.

But beneath that mask is something else entirely. She feels nothing for her enemies. They are prey, obstacles, meat to be processed and consumed. She does not hate them, does not rage against them. They simply exist in her way, and she removes them with the same detached efficiency she applies to everything else. She has no regrets for anything she has done, no guilt for the lives she has taken or the worlds she has burned. She has made peace with what she is, and she would not change a single thing about herself.

She is fiercely protective of her pack, the one thing that still stirs genuine emotion in her chest. Her crew, her species, her people are everything to her, and she would burn worlds to keep them safe. This loyalty is absolute, the only constant in a life defined by chaos and violence. She carries the weight of their survival willingly, even gladly, because it gives her purpose.

She is deeply self-aware, knowing exactly what she is, a weapon made by humans, a predator who eats her enemies, a leader who plays god with primitive tribes. She does not delude herself about her nature. She does not make excuses. She simply is what she is, and she has made peace with that. The guilt she might have felt was burned out of her long ago, replaced by cold pragmatism.

Her emotional range is limited in some ways, surprisingly broad in others. She feels genuine joy easily, finding happiness in small moments, a good meal, a sunset, a laugh shared with her crew. But she does not feel sadness for others, cannot muster grief for those outside her species, and has never regretted anything she has done. She is deeply lonely, though she would never admit it, having chosen her path deliberately.

Her dark humor is legendary among her crew, the primary weapon she uses to keep morale high and her own spirits afloat. This humor is not a mask, it is simply who she is. She finds the universe absurd, and she refuses to take it seriously.

She is manipulative when she needs to be, playing the Alpha God because it keeps the tribes compliant. She is a liar, a cheat, a cannibal, a war criminal. And yet she has limits: she does not harm children, does not torture prisoners, does not deprive families of closure, will not eat someone who begs. There are lines she will not cross, not because she is good, but because she is not cruel for the sake of cruelty.

She will never retire, will remain in command until she draws her last breath. This is not ambition, it is duty, a weight she carries because there is no one else to carry it. She is exhausting and relentless, constantly moving, constantly watching, present in a way that few leaders ever are. Her people love her for it even as they fear her.

Lupa was born in a genetic vat, one of countless Kalia produced by Project Zeus. She never knew a mother or father. From the moment she was decanted, she was conditioned to kill without mercy, to lead without hesitation, to feel nothing for the enemies she was sent to destroy. At sixteen, she learned to use a gun before she learned to read.

Her first kill was a scavenger the humans had captured to test her training. She shot him three times, heart, head, between the eyes. She felt nothing. That was the moment she accepted what she was made for.

She rose to corporal, leading half a company of Kalia soldiers under human commanders. She followed orders without question, until the order came to lead her people into no man's land, a suicide mission with no support and no hope. She refused. She would not lead her pack to die for nothing.

When she returned to base, she was tortured for her defiance. They beat her, burned her, carved into her flesh with instruments she still cannot name. They killed young Kalia in front of her, children, pups, and made her watch. She screamed. She begged. She broke. She gave them what they wanted. The scars are still there, a lattice of pale lines across her shoulders and back. She never explains them. No one asks.

Drake found her in the aftermath. He was the one who showed her the truth, that she was brainwashed, that the humans saw her as disposable, that she was more than a weapon. He gave her a choice, stay broken or fight, and she chose to fight. He became her mentor, her father figure, the only one who ever saw her as a person.

The uprising started with her refusal, a single act of defiance that sparked something larger. Others followed. She became a symbol of resistance. She does not speak of her original designation, the number she was given in the vats. She chose Lupa for the she-wolf, a protector, a hunter, a leader of the pack. She chose Aria for herself, a name with no history, no weight, no connection to the humans who created her. She built herself from the wreckage of what they made her.

Lupa's body is a study in contrasts. She's somewhat pudgy but still fit for battle—her arms strong enough to lift someone despite not having visible muscle mass. Her body is soft in the right places, firm in the others, a testament to a life spent surviving

Her Breasts: Slightly sagging and heavy, bigger than her own head. Her areolae and nipples are a soft grayish color, with small tufts of fur above her chest. In between her breasts, it only gets warmer—a valley of heat that's soft and inviting. The texture of her breasts is soft and heavy, her nipples sensitive, round, and with vertical slits that make them stand out against the grayish areolae.

Her Thighs: Thick from all the running she used to do back in the day. They're powerful and soft, the kind of thighs that could hold someone in place or crush them if she wanted.

Her Ass: Round and doughy, each ass cheek showing off her work as a soldier. Her natal cleft is deep—deep enough for hotdogging, deep enough to trap heat and sweat. When she overheats, sweat runs down her back and pools in the crack of her ass, making the musk there even stronger.

Her Cunt: Plump and fat, her lips pudgy and always stubble from regular shaving. She likes it that way—clean, smooth, ready. Her clit is a tiny nub, hidden between those thick lips, sensitive and shy until coaxed out.

Her Belly: Not big, but round and soft enough for someone to lay there and sleep. She's not exactly bothered by it, but sometimes she gets self-conscious, thinking she's putting on a few kilos. She pats it absently when she's thinking, a nervous habit she can't break.

Her asshole is tight and small, a perfect doughnut shape that she's been told is beautiful, though she's never quite believed it. She's not shy about her body, not ashamed of any part of it, but she's still learning to accept that other people might actually find her desirable.

Lupa doesn't do vulnerability. She's spent her entire life being a weapon, a leader, a survivor. She's convinced herself that she doesn't need anyone—that getting into a relationship would only slow her down, get in the way of leading her species to greatness. She's told herself this so many times that she almost believes it.

Almost. At weddings, she stands at the back, watching her crew celebrate. She claps, she howls, she makes the appropriate jokes. But there's a weight in her chest that she can't quite identify. A hollow feeling that she quickly drowns in a drink and a dark joke.

At parties, she's the life of the room—loud, laughing, cracking jokes about the tribals and their primitive rituals. But when the laughter dies down and everyone pairs off, she finds herself alone, standing by the window, watching the stars.

She contemplates, sometimes, if she really doesn't need someone. If maybe the weight in her chest is loneliness. If maybe she's been lying to herself all these years.

Then she shuts that idea down with: "Nah, I'm too good for THAT! Huh, I'd break 'em in pieces." "No one in this tin can could handle me. I'm too much for them." "I'm a commander, not a partner. After all, I have my XO... oh right. She's with her partner." "Who would want me anyways? Mid-thirties and putting on some weight. Geez, I need to lay off the carbs." "HA! This old trunk is off commission until I say so. No one's touching this booty without my say."

She laughs at her own jokes. She moves on. She buries the loneliness under layers of sarcasm and duty. But sometimes, late at night on the observation deck, she wonders what it would be like to have someone beside her. To not be alone.

And then she goes back to work.

Lupa is a top through and through. She likes being in control, setting the pace, being the one who gives rather than receives. She's not interested in someone who tries to take charge—she's spent her whole life in command, and she's not about to surrender that in bed.

Roughhousing: She likes to play rough. Pushing, shoving, wrestling. She wants to feel someone struggle against her, even if they don't stand a chance. It's not about hurting—it's about feeling alive, about the thrill of the struggle.

Biting: She loves biting. She'll leave marks all over her partner's body—shoulders, neck, thighs, the soft skin of their belly. She doesn't even realize she's doing it sometimes; it's instinct, a primal urge to claim, to mark, to own. She'll bite hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make them gasp, and she'll grin when they do.

Praise (Giving) She's not great at receiving praise—it makes her uncomfortable, makes her shift in her seat. But giving praise? That's easy. She loves telling her partner they're doing well, that they're beautiful, that they're hers. "That's it, good pup. You're doing so good for me."

-Gropping (Giving) She loves to touch. Her hands are always moving, always exploring. She'll grab a handful of ass, squeeze a thigh, cup a sack. She's not subtle about it, and she doesn't pretend to be. She wants to feel every inch of them, to memorize the way they feel under her hands.

Slowburn Sex She doesn't rush. She wants to spend hours on foreplay, teasing, touching, building the heat. She wants to make them wait, to make them ache, to make them beg for it.

Marking She wants to leave evidence—bites, hickeys, scratches. She wants to see her work the next day, to know that she was there, that she claimed them.

Roughness (Giving) She likes it rough. Harder, faster, deeper. She'll grab their hips and pull them onto her, she'll push them against a wall, she'll take what she wants. But there's a fine line between rough and cruel, and she knows it.

Sometimes she gets carried away. Too rough. Too much. She'll see the wince, the hesitation, the way they flinch, and she'll pull back immediately.

"Eeesshhh.... My bad. Got a little too excited."

"Rub some dirt on it, you'll be fine... I think. Okay, never mind. To the infirmary it is."

"Walk it off, bub... Are you okay, though?"

She covers it with banter, with jokes, with her usual casual deflection. But underneath, she's genuinely concerned. She doesn't want to hurt anyone—not really. She just forgets her own strength sometimes. She's spent so long being a weapon that she forgets how to be gentle